Belief
by LadyGuardianPhoenix
Summary: What happens when you lose your way? Where do you turn when you can't even believe in yourself? Please note that this is NOT a romance.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes and General Disclaimer:� Me no own _Rurouni Kenshin_.� I don't know any simpler way to explain that.� If there are mistakes, they're ones I'm responsible for.� Try not to hold them against me too much, and enjoy the story!_

_By the way, this is not my usual story fare.� I know I normally deal with Kenshin and Kaoru, but this is an idea I've had floating around in my head (and on my hard drive) for (literally) a few years.� It just feels right to publish it now.� My apologies if it's not what you were expecting, but the story wouldn't let me write it any other way._

* * *

What a day. 

Budget cuts, political scandals, and morons. MORONS. 

Damned bureaucrats. There were days he found himself wishing for the bad old days of the revolution, where "paper work" consisted of intelligence communiqués, the samurai took care of their own damned budgets, and if anyone really pissed him off, well, what was one more body in a dark alley?

Still, he supposed he didn't mean it, not really. It was good to know his family could walk down the street without fear. And, although he'd never admit it, he felt some small sense of pride at having helped achieve that peace. It was a peace that, even now, he struggled to help maintain.

That said, there were still some days when he was absolutely certain that he could solve more problems with his katana than all those sniveling politicians could in years of petty bickering and back-room deals.

There was a knock at the door, temporarily derailing his train of thought. 

"Enter." He began to shift through some of the papers on his desk, not bothering to look up at the subordinate who entered. The kid, whichever one this one was, was just a messenger; probably not even a good one at that. He scowled slightly.

"Ah, sir," the young man began, obviously nervous. "Sir, the chief wants to see you. Sir."

Well, at least the kid knew enough to offer proper respect to rank. The man at the desk signed one of the many documents, stamped it with his family seal and set it aside to glance at another report. 

The officer at the doorway shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Well?" 

"Um, sir," the young man stumbled, "That is, I think he wants to see you now, sir."

"You _think_ or you _know_ or you were ordered to tell me to see him now?"

"Um, well…"

For the first time, the man at the desk glanced up. It was not a nice look. 

This kid wouldn't have survived a week in the revolution. The weak ones were always the first to go. And the ones who didn't learn to pay attention to the world around them went even quicker. 

If they even made it as far as Kyoto in the first place, that is.

Still, there wasn't much point in berating the kid for something he had no control over. Most people today were frighteningly weak. 

Of course, that was why there were people like him. Even though this kid wore the uniform and attempted to command the respect that police officers should have, this particular kid would probably never have to fight anything worse than a stack of reports, might not ever even leave his desk. He was safe. They were all safe.

The wolf was guarding the sheep. 

There was probably some moral tale about this somewhere, and it probably didn't end happily.

He stood calmly, appearing unhurried, almost lazy.

"Did the chief say what he wanted?" He had a feeling he it wasn't to invite him for after-work sake. He wasn't the sort of person other officers wanted to hang around with _during_ work hours, let alone after.

"No, sir," the young man said, seeming either frightened or awed by the other man's presence. 

"Hn." 

The young man jumped to open the door for his superior.

"Um, sir?" he sounded terrified.

A raised eyebrow was the only response.

"Sir," the young officer began, dropping his voice and glancing about the nearly empty hallway, "Sir, I think it may have something to do with the Yoronda case you were working on. I think the chief may be under some extra pressure right now about how it was handled."

The older man paused at the door and glanced at his subordinate. 

"Your name?"

"Ho…Hotani, sir," the young man trembled, but didn't look away. "Hotani Yuichiro."

The older officer nodded briefly. "I'll remember that. Dismissed."

Hotani fled.

Interesting. Maybe the boy had more of a brain than he'd given him credit for. 

Saito Hajime smirked. Okay, well, maybe the Hotani kid _would_ have lasted a week in the revolution. Stranger things had happened.

He must be losing his edge not to have seen it.

Damn.

And now the chief wanted to talk to him about the Yoronda case. Probably more complaints about how he'd handled things, or more criticism from politicians who didn't understand anything about _real_ work, only that they needed someone to take the rap when things didn't work out the way they wanted them to. 

Wonderful, just wonderful.

Oh, yeah, it was one of _those_ days. 

Damn, but he needed a cigarette.


	2. Chapter 2

_Same disclaimers apply as before: if I owned _Rurouni Kenshin_,do you think I'd be writing fan fiction?_

* * *

Two hours. He'd stood in the office for two hours at attention and allowed the chief of police to rebuke him for what was in no way his fault. 

He lit a cigarette. 

Two hours. He'd allowed the other man to berate him, had said nothing, not even to defend himself. He knew the chief wasn't a big fan of politicians either, but he had to play the game in order to protect his men. It was one of the reasons Saito respected him. The chief was no samurai, but he still understood what it meant to live and die by the sword.

But a week's suspension? It grated on Saito.

The chief had been almost apologetic when he'd told Saito he was being taken off the Yoronda case. 

"_You're one of my best men," the chief said. "But there haven't been any real results. When you _do _manage to get some answers, I have to listen to hours of complaints about _how_ you got them."_

_The chief sighed. "This isn't the revolution. You can't just threaten and bully people and not expect consequences. If you can't adapt to this new era, you aren't going to survive. And it'll be a longer, slower death than death by the sword._

"_Ordinarily, I would say the answer is _more_ work, not less, but I've never seen you take a break, not even a sick day. You need some time off. Get your head together. Get focused on what's important. When you get back, then I'll decide whether to put you back on the case. _

"_You have a week. Until then, if I see you darken this door for anything other than an emergency, I'll have your job. Understood?"_

Saito was ashamed.

He'd been ordered off cases before, especially cases which required a more…_delicate_ touch. But to be completely suspended from duty? 

It was humiliating.

What was worse, the case itself should have been simple, easy to crack. He still didn't understand why he was having such a difficult time with it. It would have been easier if he'd had free reign to get his answers, as he'd had only a few years ago.

Yoronda, another idiot politician, had been acting as a spy for at least three separate foreign governments, accepting huge payoffs from each of them for information on everything from Japan's foreign investments to their internal security. When he'd been killed in a brothel during a drunken brawl with another high-ranking patron over a woman, all sorts of information about Yoronda's extracurricular activities had surfaced, and now, the police were struggling to expose all the man's contacts before they had a chance to do any more damage.

Damned politicians. They were all untrustworthy, unworthy of having his blade stand between them and the death they all richly deserved. They had no honor, no comprehension of the code of a samurai. They were petty. There were days when Saito wished he could kill them all, or at least a few of them.

It should have been a case just like any of the others he'd had over the years. Still, after almost a week, Saito had barely made any headway into the investigation. With every passing day, Yoronda's contacts were more and more likely to get away, leaving Japan vulnerable. 

Why couldn't he catch them? What was wrong with him that he couldn't find a few corrupt politicians and spies?

Was he losing his touch? Was that it?

Saito had never failed before, not even when the odds were stacked against him. 

Especially when the odds were against him, actually.

What was different now?

He wandered the streets for a few hours, smoking, thinking. He let his feet carry him where they would, unwilling to go home to his wife and children, not wanting to explain why he was home early. 

There was only so much shame a man could bear, after all.

There was no one he could talk to about this, no one who would understand his concerns, his self-doubt. If he told anyone about his uncertainties, they would only see them as a weakness to be exploited.

He could afford no weaknesses. The world was not so safe that he could let his guard down, even for a second.

So he wandered. 

_I'm getting to be like that damned rurouni_. 

Hmm. Battousai. 

The chief had said he needed to get his head together, and few things gave Saito clarity like time spent around his old enemy. Perhaps a visit to Himura would do him some good. At the very least, he could needle that hodge-podge family the battousai had surrounded himself with.

In slightly better spirits, Saito set off for the Kamiya Kasshin-ryu dojo.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ooo! More disclaimer-y goodness! Still don't own _Rurouni Kenshin_! Sad._

_Yes, I'm trying to keep my chapters short. I don't usually have a lot of action, so to keep you guys from getting too bogged down, I'll try to keep things short, sweet and to the point. Feel free to share your complaints, comments, and if I'm super lucky, compliments._

* * *

He walked into a fight.

Of course, he wasn't surprised. It was a dojo, after all, and the Kamiya girl was becoming increasingly popular as a kenjutsu instructor. Saito sometimes wondered if her popularity was due, at least in part, to the Battousai's presence in her dojo, but usually he dismissed the thought. The presence of the hitokiri might be enough to attract students to the dojo initially, but it wouldn't be enough to keep them there, especially when they realized they would never receive lessons from the infamous warrior. No, retaining students was usually harder than attracting them in the first place, and that had to be Kamiya's doing.

There were two boys in the center of the dojo, each poised with shinai ready to strike. Kamiya knelt at the edge of the floor, patiently watching each move, taking in every action her students made. The tension in the room built until even from across the polished boards of the dojo floor, Saito felt it, felt that old, familiar sensation, that sense of _waiting_, the anticipation, the knowing that soon, someone would strike, and it would all be over.

It was such a familiar feeling.

When it happened, Saito was not surprised. He knew the precise moment when the taller boy raised his shinai, knew that the boy's opponent had been waiting for that moment, had anticipated its coming. It was over in two moves.

The boys bowed to each other, then to Kamiya, who nodded calmly. 

"Why did Toshio win, Daisuke?" she asked as her students came to kneel in front of her.

"He saw through my defense, sensei," the tall boy responded earnestly.

"But _how_ did he see through your defense?" Kamiya asked.

Daisuke paused, obviously thinking his answer through carefully.

"I struck too soon?" the uncertainty in his voice was obvious.

"Did you?" Kamiya waited patiently.

"I don't know, sensei," the boy said quietly. "The moment felt right. I could see how Toshio was moving, could anticipate his next move. It felt _right_."

Kamiya said nothing for a moment, then smiled briefly at her student. "Go home and think about this until your next lesson Daisuke. Look at the reasons behind why I had you fight Toshio. Think about your own instincts. We'll talk about it then. For now, both of you, it was a good bout. I'm pleased with both of you."

The three bowed to each other, the students bowing lower to their teacher, for whom they both obviously had a great deal of respect.

"Don't worry about clean up tonight, boys," Kamiya said as her students began to make their way to the cloths the dojo kept specifically for the purpose of floor polishing. "You've both worked hard today and it's late. The floor can wait until morning."

"Thank you, sensei," Daisuke and Toshio bowed in unison before collecting their gear and slipping past Saito, already talking about their fight and jostling each other the way boys their age often did. Saito had, at one point, been very much like them. At the same time, though, he'd known he was learning swordsmanship for very practical purposes; Toshio and Daisuke probably believed they'd never have to draw a blade in violence.

Saito had become a policeman to make sure people like them could keep their illusions.

"He's not here."

Saito glanced at Kamiya who'd risen and was walking over to the polishing cloths the boys had left behind. 

Saito grunted and turned to go.

"But you already knew that."

It made him pause. He'd not been expecting her to say anything else to him; he and the Kamiya girl were hardly friends. In point of fact, it was most likely that she despised him. He glanced back over his shoulder at her.

"So, he went off to save the world again? Or is he just off on a tofu run for you?"

She ignored his sarcasm. 

"No," she answered seriously, calmly. "He went to Kyoto to see Hiko." She bent and gathered several of the cloths in her hand before glancing up at him. "He needed to regain some clarity about some of the things happening in his life."

Saito snorted. "And here I thought Battousai had one of the best senses of clarity in Japan. He certainly preaches it enough."

"Even sages have been known to lose their way," she answered with a shrug. 

"Why would he go to that madman on his mountain?" Saito had no idea why he was bothering talking to her; once he realized the battousai was not there, he should have left. Why was he still here?

"Sometimes, even though the student leaves, he still values the master's wisdom and experience," she answered. "You never stop being a student. Not even when you're the master."

The concept made sense. Of course, he'd never been able to run back to his old master for advice. That old man was long in his grave.

"Here," she said, tossing him a polishing cloth. He caught it automatically, then glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. She met him stare for stare.

"You came here looking for a fight," she said. "Do you know why?"

He didn't have to answer her. He wasn't one of her students. He didn't work for her. He owed her nothing. So he said nothing, just stood there, holding the bit of fabric in his hand as he studied her.

"Come on. There's work to be done," she said, and, gathering her own cloth, walked to one end of the room. 

Saito shrugged. There was no way he was cleaning this woman's dojo.

"Or are you too good to do such work?" she tossed the question over her shoulder carelessly, as though she knew the answer already and was taunting him with it, betting that he wouldn't contradict her.

He snorted. She was accusing him of too much pride, something any warrior worth his sword knew to be a weakness; the implied insult stung. Still, only a green, insecure fighter would fall for the trap her words made. He would stand right where he was; let her take care of her own dojo. It was her fault for letting her students go without fulfilling their duty, anyway. She could clean around him for all he cared. He dropped the cloth on the smooth boards of the dojo floor and turned to walk away.

"Still don't know why you're here?" she called, glancing at him from halfway across the room. He didn't answer. She was getting on his nerves. What was it with women and their infernal questions? 

He glowered at her. What would she know anyway? She was just another of the sheep. Just like everyone else in this city. 

"Fighting is not the only solution to a problem," she said. "Pick up the cloth. There was a reason I let my students leave without doing this. You need it more than they did."

He blinked at her. What the hell was this crazy woman talking about?

"You can start at that end of the room," she said, barely sparing him a glance. "I'll start on this side." And, not waiting for him to acknowledge her, she squared her body above the floor, braced her feet and, cloth in front of her, raced across the floor.

Saito glared at her. He was _not_ her maid. 

Still…

Perhaps it would do no harm. He had the time, after all, he thought derisively. He shrugged out of his stiff policeman's jacket and picked up the white square of fabric before walking to the side of the room she'd motioned to. He laid his coat aside then braced his own feet on the floor and set his polishing cloth in front of him. He took off down one long strip of boards.


	4. Chapter 4

_This chapter is so extremely short, I almost put it together with the previous one; still, I thought it was important to separate it. And no, I still (alas!) don't own _Rurouni Kenshin.

* * *

There was an art to polishing the floor, he remembered. He'd often performed this task as a student and his body recalled the proper form after a few seconds. One had to position one's feet just so, rising up slightly on the balls of the feet to provide power to the stride. 

He raced back down the next board.

The hips had to be aligned with the shoulders and the hands had to be placed at just the right distance in front or risk overbalancing. Done wrong, the body looked like a triangle, hips and butt thrust high in the air; it was also more difficult to get proper leverage to slide the cloth over the planks with any efficiency. Done properly, a person could get their bodies close to the ground and move very fast over the floor, finishing the job in very little time.

He finished the row and turned down the next.

It was such a simple thing, really. Set your arms and brace your feet; let your legs do all the work. Down one line, up the next. Follow the grain of the wood; work with the boards, not against them. 

Back and forth. He worked faster now.

Dojo space is sacred space, his master had taught him. The space must be kept clean and neat; it was a measure of respect for the lessons being taught, for the other students and for the teachers. Failure to take proper care for one's tools, be it sword, bokken or the room in which one learned one's craft, meant lack of respect. 

Respect, knowing its value and its cost, were vital to any master of any craft. Lack of it could mean death. At least, that was the way it was in Saito's profession.

Of course, polishing the floor also had practical aspects. Aside from wiping away sweat and dirt and sometimes blood and other debris, the daily cleaning helped improve balance and dexterity in beginning apprentices, taught discipline and humility to the unruly and rebellious and served as a way for older students to focus their thoughts, similar to a meditation. It was…

Another way to find clarity.

Huh. Saito nearly fell on his face when he halted mid-stride. He glanced around the dojo.

Kamiya was no where to be found. 

He went back to polishing the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

_And here, we come to the heart of the matter._

_Duh, if I didn't own _Rurouni Kenshin_ in the last chapter, do you really think I'd own it in this one? I mean, come on, the likelihood of that happening is what, a bazillion to none?_

* * *

When he stepped back out on to the porch a while later, he was not surprised to find the Kamiya woman sitting there, apparently waiting for him.

"I'd offer you sake," she said, glancing up at him, "but I don't keep it around the house. Sanosuke's the only one who would drink it, and he already costs me a minor fortune in food. I refuse to support his vices, as well."

"Ah," Saito said, feeling awkward. The unusual emotion annoyed him. "Where is the rooster-head, anyway? Where's the brat, for that matter? I thought the lot of them couldn't bear to leave you on your own for more than five minutes."

"Yahiko is working at the Akabeko," she answered him seriously, as she had all evening, ignoring his sarcasm. "Sanosuke is probably off gambling, drinking, fighting or harassing Megumi. Possibly a combination of all four. Would you like some tea? There are some onigiri as well."

"Did you make them?" Her reputation as a cook was well-known…perhaps infamous would be a better word. He thought it best to be safe rather than sorry.

"Oh, for…!" she rolled her eyes. "Yes, I made them but they taste just fine. Just because I can't get them to stay in a proper shape…! Humph. I've had more important things to focus on than making a perfectly round rice ball!" She grumbled and glowered at him, then snatched up one of the lopsided shapes and took a bite. 

"See? Not poisoned or anything!" She glared at him, daring him to say anything. He shrugged and sat down at a respectful distance, lifted one of the freshly poured cups of tea and avoided the lumpy onigiri. She snorted and rolled her eyes.

"You're not concerned about being alone with an unrelated male? Your reputation could suffer if someone happens by," he was making conversation, not particularly worried about her reputation.

"I live with Kenshin and Yahiko," she said wryly. "Sanosuke is a regular visitor and overnight guest. I run a dojo and teach at other dojos in the area. I know more men than women. Trust me, I gave up worrying about some of the finer points of propriety a long time ago."

He shrugged. She made a good point. Still, if she'd been any other woman, he'd have long ago written her off as promiscuous. Ordinary women simply did not spend time in the company of unattached males. Interestingly enough, it was her reputation as a teacher, which even now was growing, and which protected her status in the community. 

She took a sip of her tea.

"Still don't know why you're here, do you?" She looked out over her dojo yard as if contemplating the white wall surrounding her property.

He glanced at her.

"You know, I've noticed something," she said, not looking at him. "You tend to come here to pick a fight with Kenshin whenever you need to sort something out. I've seen a lot of fighters do that, especially men like you and Kenshin who were in the Bakumatsu.

"But you don't come here because it's Kenshin. It's the straightforwardness of a real fight, when things are black and white, life or death. You pick a fight with Kenshin because he's the only one who can fight you to a standstill so you don't have to hold back. You trust Kenshin to be good enough to not die.

"You came here tonight, as you've done before, looking for clarity. That much, I understand. What I don't know, however, is _why_ you're feeling lost."

She sipped her tea. He glanced at her, then looked out over the yard. 

She was right. It was annoying for him to admit it, but she was right. Damned tanuki. She was beginning to remind him of his keen-eyed master. That old man had never missed a thing, no matter how Saito might have tried to hide it. Somehow, he always knew. And Saito had always ended up telling the old man everything.

"It isn't your concern," he scowled.

"And yet," she replied blithely, "it is."

"I haven't killed the battousai yet," he snorted, knowing her concern would be all for the redhead. 

"No," she said, perfectly calm. "And he hasn't killed you, either."

"True."

They sat in silence, sipping tea and looking out into the yard.

"Kenshin doesn't always fully understand why you come to pick a fight with him," she said quietly. "He thinks it's because you still hold a grudge from the Bakumatsu. He thinks he should be punished for what he did then, and you're the gods' way of reminding him that he'll never be free of that debt."

Saito snorted. "We all deserve some sort of retribution from those days."

"Hmmm."

More silence. He listened to the crickets chirping softly, the buzzing rising and falling in a long, rhythmic tide against his ears.

"Do you really?" she asked, startling him. "Do you really deserve retribution?"

Startled, Saito glanced at her, then away. 

"Yes," he said quietly, firmly. Saito Hajime was nothing if not honest.

"Did you believe in what you were doing? Did you believe what you were doing was right and just?"

"Of course," Saito snorted. 

"Has something happened to you since then to make you change your mind, to make you doubt that?" she asked softly.

"No," Saito was puzzled, waiting to see where this line of questions would take her.

"And do you think Kenshin believed any less in what he was doing than in what you were doing then?" she sat very still next to him on the porch, her words falling like soft rain into the air around them.

For a long moment, the tall man was silent. 

"If he'd had any less belief in what he was fighting for than I had in what I was fighting for, neither of us would have lasted. Neither of us would have become what we did. We were the best. Or maybe we were the worst. But we balanced each other out. If either one of us had believed any less in what he was doing, we would have long since been dead."

"So you both still believe in what you fought each other to try to achieve," Kamiya said quietly, sipping her tea. "By opposing each other, you created the world we live in today. Neither of you precisely got the world you were hoping to create, but rather got a little of each of your desires incorporated into something else, something wholly unique, and, in its own way, pure."

Saito was silent. He looked down at the nearly empty cup in his hand, tilting the pottery so the tea leaves in the bottom of the cup sloshed around like a lazy tornado. Kamiya lifted the tea pot to pour him a second serving.

"Why do you deserve retribution, Saito Hajime?"

Startled, he glanced up at her, the cup nearly slipping from strangely nerveless fingers. He tried to cover his discomfort as he always did when faced with an awkward situation. He waited in silence, trying to see where she was going with her infernal questions, trying to anticipate her tactics, wondering if he should be gearing up to go on the offensive, or just preparing to flee.

"And why do you call yourself Fujita Goro?" she asked. "Saito Hajime was as much a hero in the revolution as anyone. It is a name worthy of respect and fear. Yet now, you go by another name.

"You say you deserve retribution," she said quietly. "But you have yet to tell me why. I wonder if you even know."

She sipped her tea and gazed out into her yard, strangely introspective. 

"Do you?"

He hadn't meant for the question to slip out, had intended only to sit there in the gathering darkness and drink tea and pretend to have polite conversation. He'd told himself he was merely being courteous, polite to a woman who was obviously important to an old enemy. 

But the words were out, now, and he could not take them back. And even more strangely than the slip of his usually disciplined tongue was his sudden interest in what her response might be.

She cradled her tea cup in both palms, studying the dark liquid as though she were a fortune teller reading the leaves in the bottom. When she spoke, he had to crane his head to hear the soft words.

"Once upon a time, there was a terrible war. There were brave warriors on each side of the fight, all of whom believed implicitly in their cause, knowing that surely the gods must be on their side. Many people died. Great warriors, the likes of which are only seen every few hundred years, fought each other for the right to claim victory and supremacy. Their battles became myths within moments, and those myths became legends over night. The great warriors became as gods, wielding the forces of death – and occasionally life – over all those around them. 

"In the end, one side won and the other side lost; which one did which is not really so important to this story. But the warriors who had fought so hard, who had created the new world, were suddenly no longer necessary. Battles with swords were rapidly replaced with diplomacy; death threats were replaced with sanctions and law. And the great warriors who had held so much power were suddenly useless, helpless within the very world they'd made. 

"And so, they began to disappear. Some drifted away to return to homes and forgotten families. Others set out to wander the world, to find their purpose in life. A few felt horrible guilt and sought atonement while others went mad and set off on darker paths to destruction. And still there were a couple who remained behind, waiting, watching, looking for the tiniest misstep in the new world so they would know if things went wrong, and would be able to step in if they were suddenly needed again."

"Get to the point, Kamiya," Saito growled.

"Did I say there was a point, Saito?" she snapped at him. "This is not your story."

Saito snorted and rolled his eyes, his annoyance clearly demonstrating his opinion of _that_ statement.

Kamiya ignored him, taking a sip of her tea and staring into space for a few moments, then continued her story as though she'd never been interrupted.

"The ones who returned home returned to people who did not really want to hear about the war. Their families and friends, more often than not, only wanted to hear about the glories of battle, but not the hardships, the loss, the suffering and reality. They did not want to hear tales of friends dying in pain, alone in the mud. They did not want to hear about the screaming and cursing, the fear and the guilt. They did not want to hear about how silently, secretly, the survivors of each battle were glad that they were not the ones lying in the dirt, wide eyes staring forever into empty space, grateful that they had lived and someone else had died instead.

"Or worse, there were those who wanted to hear about the blood and gore and would listen in fascination to tales of horror with bright, uncomprehending, bloodlust-filled eyes. These were the people who had never and might never see battle, might never comprehend the loss of life and what the war had meant to the losers – and the winners. To them, it was simply another story; perhaps it was true, perhaps not, but either way, as real as it had been for the teller of the tale, it would still only be a story to the listener. And at the end of the day, these people could go home and lay themselves down and sleep the sleep of innocents, never to be haunted by bloodied hands reaching out for salvation or by terrified voices, begging to be allowed to live.

"And so, the warriors who returned to these people learned to speak of their experiences on the battlefield in very general terms, if at all. They learned to tuck their pasts away as though it were a completely different life, as though the warrior who had wielded the katana on the battlefield was someone else entirely than the man who worked the land. And perhaps that is exactly what happened.

"The wanderers roamed the land, looking for a new life, a new reason to continue living. Some would find it while for others, the quest itself would become their reason for existence, and they would become lost in it.

"The guilt-ridden taught themselves to see shadows of their misdeeds wherever they looked. Even the small measures of peace they sometimes found or had thrust upon them were not always enough to assuage their consciences. Their lives became a constant search for forgiveness, forgiveness for crimes they knew they would have repeated had they ever been needed to protect their ideals. It was this knowledge, this truth, which would continue to torment them for the rest of their lives. They may have regretted their actions, but they would still have done them, because, in the end at least, their behaviors may have saved more lives than they damned. 

"The madmen, well, they just went crazy. Some went quietly insane while others were more…dramatic. Some ended their own lives, and some tried to end the lives of others. Either way, there was no peace for them, and no escape from the demons which plagued them.

"But it is the ones who remained behind who I have always found the most interesting in this particular story. Do you know why, Saito Hajime?"

"Do you actually expect me to answer that?" Saito asked drolly.

Kamiya smiled a little. "No," she said, "no, I don't, but not because the question is rhetorical or because you're being an ass. I don't expect you to answer the question because you don't actually know what the answer is."

"I'm sure you're going to tell me, whether I want to hear or not," Saito muttered.

She went very still for a moment, then put her teacup down. "You may leave at any time, Saito Hajime. You have free will. Nothing, especially not me, is keeping you here without your consent."

Saito was surprised that he felt ashamed. He dropped his gaze and sat, silent, and waited to see if she would continue. He would not ask her to, though. Oh, no; he had some pride left. He would not beg for anything, especially not a bedtime story from an idealistic wannabe warrior woman. He winced at that last thought, feeling even more ashamed that it had even popped into his brain. She didn't deserve that bit of spite, and he knew it.

She sighed. "The war never ended for them. They never trusted anyone; eventually, they began to believe that they could not even trust themselves. They became bitter, cynical. Their pure intentions became corrupted or turned fanatical and they lost sight of the very ideals which had driven them in the first place. In the end, they lost everything."

The man who had once been known as Saito Hajime and now served the state in the guise of a police officer named Goro Fujita sat in the dark with the strangest woman he'd ever met. For a moment, he could almost believe that of all the people in the world, this woman might have the answers he was so desperate for, might know the reasons behind why he was the way he was. And maybe, just maybe, if she could tell him, then he might find a moment's peace for himself, might find a bit of the rest he hadn't known he had been seeking for so long. More than that, though, perhaps she could justify his continued pathetic existence in a world which had long since rejected him.

But though he waited, still and silent, nearly holding his breath, almost desperate to hear her next words, she said nothing.

And Saito Hajime, a man who had fought in war and helped change the fate of his nation, felt part of his soul crumble away into dust.


	6. Chapter 6

_Endings. Resolutions. Finalities. Here, we part ways, dear reader. This is as far as the story would let me go._

_And no, I still don't own _Rurouni Kenshin_. I don't even know the people who do. -sniffle-_

* * *

He bowed his head, exhaled sharply, and desperately attempted to save the remnants of his pride. 

"What would you know about being a warrior?" he snarled, lighting a cigarette and gripping it in his fingers tightly. "You're just a stupid little girl playing with a wooden sword. You practice a martial art which you say is never intended to be used in the real world. You're ridiculous. You're a nothing and a no one and you'll never be anyone of value. You know nothing. _Nothing_. You pretend to be wise and caring, but the truth is, your words aren't even worth the breath it takes to form them. Go back to your foolish little dream world and leave the business of real living to the rest of us."

He stood abruptly, prepared to storm off into the night, away from the woman who saw too much.

She did not move to follow him; she remained silent, calmly sipping her tea.

He made it all of three steps away from her and her wall of serene disregard before his anger and frustration had him turning back, glaring at her. He was goading her now, the same as he would have goaded the Battousai, had that bastard been there as he should have been. A fight, he could have coped with; a fight, he understood – one man won, the other lost. It was truth at its most basic and simple. What use was his sword against her words? He might cut her down to silence them, yet they would remain, more deeply imbedded in his psyche for the fact that he had yet to understand them, and might never fully do so.

"You little – " he began.

"Sit down," she said. Her voice was hard, harder than he'd ever heard it. It was a voice to be obeyed without question, to be listened to without interruption. Any other time, he might have rebelled, scoffed at her, called her names or simply ignored her; but now, when she spoke like that, the way a general might to an army, the way his own old teacher had spoken to him, he found he had no will, no ability to defy her. He sat. 

"You have absolutely no patience," she muttered. "You want all the answers handed to you, but life doesn't work like that. There is no absolute guide, no surefire way to make it through your life without regret. 

"You say I know nothing of being a warrior? It is all I have ever been, Saito Hajime, and all I ever will be. Do you believe it is easy to be a woman and do the things I do? Do you think it is an easy thing to teach boys the art of death? To stand in front of my community and have my ability and character questioned time and time again because of my sex? My wars have not always been on a battlefield and have not always involved swords, but they have been constant and unwavering. I have faced criticism and doubt; I have been harassed and attacked physically, verbally, mentally and emotionally every single day of my life. And yes, I have lost friends and family; I have watched some fade away and others die in the most painful of circumstances. You say I have no value, no purpose, no meaning? Look to yourself, Saito Hajime, and see that it is not I about whom you are speaking, but you. All the doubts, the fears and the questions you assigned to me are the ones you fear most in yourself.

"There is a difference between us, though," she said, quieter now. She paused, lifted her teacup again and stared into its depths as if hoping to find the answers there.

He knew better than to interrupt her, but he did so anyway.

"What difference is that?" he muttered, looking away.

She shook her head at his bitterness.

"I have never lost my belief in myself, in who I am and what I am doing. And that, Saito Hajime, is why you are lost."

He shook his head and frowned, twisting his cigarette between his fingers.

Silence reigned. 

"Why did you take up the sword, Saito Hajime? Why did you choose to fight?"

He glanced up at her sharply, the rest of his body going completely still, frozen by her question. And for the life of him, he couldn't answer her. 

He couldn't answer because he couldn't remember himself.

Lost. He was lost.

"Once upon a time, there was a warrior," she said softly. "And one day, he became a warrior without a war, a warrior with blood on his hands. A warrior who had done terrible things to survive, only then emerged from the battle into a world which wanted to forget him, a world which desperately wanted to pretend that all of the horrible things he had done had never happened. This world told the warrior to forget who he had been, to denounce all the things he had done, to bury his past in some dark, secret corner like a dog. The world told the warrior that he had no purpose, no value in the new age and in order to survive, the warrior would have to become no more.

"And so, the warrior tried. He buried himself, hid all he'd been and tried, so desperately, to wedge himself into the new life, frantic to find some justification for his continued existence. He continued this path until he forgot everything, even who he was. The weakness of this warrior, this proud man, was that he needed someone, anyone, to believe in him. It was something he'd forgotten how to do for himself.

"Everyone needs someone to believe in them. It gives us the courage to go on, even when we don't believe in ourselves – no, _especially _when we don't believe in ourselves. This is not a weakness; this is simply a fact. This is what it is to be human."

She paused a moment, staring out over the empty dojo yard. Her eyes were distant – looking at things he had no hope of seeing, memories that he had no place in, and thoughts that he couldn't even begin to understand. He watched her face, noticing, perhaps for the first time, the fine lines of worry already etched around the creases of her eyes and beside her mouth. She was too young to be so old. Too naïve to be so wise. He did not like having his comfortable illusions shattered. 

Not that she seemed to care what he wanted.

"You have never been alone," she spoke so softly, the words barely breathed into the quietness of the night, so gently whispered that he had to strain to hear them.

"You have never been alone," she said again.

"I have been alone since peace was declared," the words slipped out; he didn't know where they'd come from.

"You have never been alone," she repeated.

"I have no one," he whispered. "I have nothing."

"You are not alone," she said. "And you have everything you could ever need or desire. You have friends who know your past and accept you anyway. You have a family that loves you, a wife who wed you, even knowing your faults. You have comrades who share your burdens. You have a purpose. Your life has meaning. All that is left now is for you to choose what to do with it. 

"But I can tell you from personal experience that the people who care about you the most will continue to believe in you and support you, no matter what it is you end up doing."

She glanced at him, steady blue eyes unwavering, perhaps even slightly accusing. Her mouth quirked in a suddenly self-deprecating grin as she cocked her head to the side and studied him.

She smiled.

He saw it then, what the rurouni and the gambler and the lady doctor and the thief saw in her. Infinite patience and goodness, strength and forgiveness, kindness and courage. 

Infinite belief. 

He had not been so humbled in a very long time. 

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and looked away. He took a breath as though he was going to try again, but could only snort softly and shake his head in disgust.

He took a long drag off his cigarette instead. The silence spun out between them.

When she stood suddenly, he was startled. He glanced up at her but she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she stretched a bit, pressing her hands into her lower back, yawned and looked up at the sky.

"Getting late," she said, conversationally. "It's going to be a beautiful night."

"Nn," he grunted, eyeing her warily.

"That was a hint, wolf," she grinned, all traces of the serious, world-weary woman gone, hidden under a cheerful, if slightly violent, façade. "It's time for you to get outta my house. I've got enough to do with all these freeloaders hanging around without adding another."

He blinked, startled by her sudden change in demeanor. 

"I mean it, pal," she raised an eyebrow in what might have been intended to be a threatening manner, but merely came off as quirky. He stood, flicking the remains of his cigarette out into the yard. He smiled lazily. More work for the brat to do later. 

She walked with him to the gate, but he hesitated then, suddenly strangely uncertain. He half turned to her, then back to the gate and paused there, hand on the wooden frame, his brow wrinkled in consternation. She studied him for a brief moment.

"Go home, Saito," she said, her quiet voice surprisingly firm. He glanced at her. She had mood changes like, well, like a woman, he supposed. Who understood _what_ was going on in their heads half the time?

Her face softened then, the lines around her eyes creasing just a bit as she gave him a half smile.

"Go home," she said, softer this time. "There are people waiting for you. You shouldn't make them wait too long."

Coming from someone who obviously knew something about waiting for others, he took her words to heart. He nodded and stepped over the threshold and out onto the darkening street. He paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"You know," he said slowly, "for a tanuki, you're not as idiotic as you appear."

She snorted. 

"And for a wolf, you're pretty dense. I suppose you've been hit in the head one too many times, though, so it can't be helped. Still, maybe I can knock some sense into you…hang on while I grab my shinai…" 

He chuckled and knew, even without looking at her, that she was smiling. He shook his head, his heart, for the first time in a long time, light.

"Kamiya," he said quietly, "Thanks."

"Anytime."

He stepped away from the pool of light at her door and into the darkness. 

It was enough.

_-Owari-_


End file.
